Failing to have Ellen's company, she turned her attention to old Job Somers, and whenever she could get an afternoon out, she spent it in his cottage tidying him up. "And, please 'm," she informed Helen, "we do a bit of sighin' together, which be very comfortin'. For he have had a heap o' trouble, poor old man, near as much as Bible Job did have—and we reads about him together, and what he don't feel, I does, so every chapter seem to fit us." "But, Peggy," said Helen, "I don't think moaning over each other's troubles will do you much good. I thought you were going to try to be one of God's little messengers, and cheer people up." Peggy gazed at Helen in silence, then without a word she moved away. But she had learnt her lesson, and the next time she visited Job she put it into practice. "Good arternoon, Mr. Somers. How are you—rather sadly? But I think you're lookin' a bit more spry." "Oh no," said the old man, shaking his head; "I shan't never be better, and Bill have taken to go to choir practice in the evenin'. They do say he have a fine voice, but 'tis mortal dull for me, all alone! All alone!" "So it be; but, mister, I ain't a-goin' to groan no more, for I have been a bad girl, forgettin' what I means to be, when I'm a growed-up. And I've forgetted all about the singin' heart, mister, which you'd best get as soon as you can." "What be that? If Bill thinketh he can sing, 'tis more nor his old father can do." "Oh yes, 'tis certain sure you can. 'Tis what I ought to have told yer this long while, but my trouble occpied me so. You do feel sick at heart generally, don't yer?" "Ay, I do that, my maid, I do sure enough!" "Then I'll tell you how to make it change. You give it right up to Jesus Christ, and He'll make a cure of it. You see, 'tis like this, mister: When He came to earth, you remember, He were always a-goin' about curin' sick folks. If any one had a sick body, and come along to Him, He always cured it. Nowadays, He's a just goin about the earth, a-curin' sick souls. O' course we don't see Him a-doin of it; He does it very quiet and private like, but that be what is goin' on. Now, wouldn't you like yours cured?" "There's nought the matter with my soul," muttered the old man peevishly. "Oh," said Peggy, "there is, mister. Yer soul or yer heart, 'tis all the same. You said 'twas sick. There be a deal o' folks with sick souls I've heerd tell, and there be no medicine for 'em that you can buy, for Jesus Christ don't mean 'em to be cured by anybody but Hisself. Now, who's a-takin' care o' yer soul, mister?" "Myself," answered the old man promptly. "'Tis my business, and no one else's."